


Better even than warm feet

by FrancesHouseman



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Camping, First Time, M/M, Multi, Teasing, dares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24715003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: “You just want me to fall in the river,” d’Artagnan says. “For your entertainment.”
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay/d'Artagnan/Athos | Comte de la Fère/Porthos du Vallon
Comments: 6
Kudos: 77





	Better even than warm feet

It’s mid-spring when they set out on a two-week ride to Guiche. The evenings are long and the days are warm but there’s still a chill in the air at night.

On the first evening of their journey they’re high spirited after a meal of grilled fish and a cup of wine apiece.

Athos is off in the woods, possibly answering a call of nature, or washing himself further down the river. “Or looking for God, or just sick of our company for a while,” Porthos shrugs and passes the small flask of brandy to Aramis, who salutes him with it and takes a swig.

Aramis hands it back to Porthos and d’Artagnan frowns, feeling indignant. “Could I have some too?” he says.

Porthos considers. “I don’t know. There isn’t much in here.” He sloshes the liquid around inside to demonstrate. It sounds like plenty to d’Artagnan’s ears.

“A bit young for brandy aren’t you?” Aramis teases. “You’ve had a cup of wine already. Maybe best leave the serious drinking to your elders.”

“And betters,” Porthos adds.

D’Artagnan scowls at them but refuses to rise to the bait.

“Although,” Aramis says, cocking his head, “I suppose you could _earn_ your share.”

“Earn it how?” d’Artagnan narrows his eyes.

Porthos and Aramis share a look. “How about a dare?” Porthos says. “You see those branches across the river? I’ll give you a decent share of this brandy if you can use them to get across.”

D’Artagnan looks at the tree branches in question. The bark is smooth and the branches look small enough to grip and strong enough to take his weight. They do overlap, to form a high bridge across the river. Experience, however, has taught him to be suspicious of these two where dares are concerned, and with good reason.

“You just want me to fall in the river,” d’Artagnan says. “For your entertainment.”

“Show him how it’s done, Porthos,” Aramis says, nudging his friend to standing.

And Porthos does. He makes it look so easy, dangling from the branch, using his bodyweight to keep the momentum going as he swings from hand to hand, all the way across the river and back again without seeming to break a sweat.

“Alright,” d’Artagnan decides, and takes off his boots. He’s much lighter than Porthos, and surely can go one way at least. If he needs a break then he will simply wait before coming back across.

D’Artagnan is half way across the river and struggling when Athos comes back. He has made the mistake of losing his momentum and hangs there, muscles screaming as he contemplates the place before him where the branches overlap.

What had looked so simple from the bank now seems an impossible task. He casts a look over his shoulder, sees Athos standing with the others watching, and curses. He makes a valiant attempt to capture the second branch and goes down harder for the momentum of it, into the river with a splash.

Aramis howls with laughter as d’Artagnan flails to regain his footing. Porthos holds Aramis by the shoulders and tells him that he’s _méchant,_ but not like it’s a bad thing.

“Is this how we conduct ourselves on the King’s business?” Athos says, when d’Artagnan has made his sodden way to the bank. Porthos and Athos stop laughing and straighten up, hands clasped behind their backs, and when d’Artagnan tries to catch their eye, they gaze stubbornly into the middle distance, although signs of amusement still play across their faces, around their eyes and mouths.

“I asked you a question.”

D’Artagnan looks into Athos’s face but finds no hint of humour. He too adopts a more proper pose. “Athos, I apologise,” he says formally.

Athos walks around him slowly. “And when you catch a chill from sleeping in wet clothes,” Athos says, “Or shame our regiment by being seen covered in river mud, who will be held responsible for your conduct then?”

Porthos makes a weird snorting noise but when d’Artagnan looks over Porthos is frowning and puffing his chest out, still not catching anyone’s eye. It could have been a sneeze.

“Yours, Athos,” d’Artagnan says miserably. “I really am sorry.” To his credit, he doesn’t say anything about having been dared. “I can dry my clothes though,” he gestures at their cheerful little campfire.

Athos glances to Porthos and Aramis, his expression inscrutable, their eyes sliding to meet his. “Yes,” he says to d’Artagnan.

Feeling awkward, d’Artagnan echoes “Yes?” eventually.

“You should dry your clothes,” Athos elaborates.

D’Artagnan scans their expressions. Athos sighs and raises his brows impatiently though, and d’Artagnan sets about finding dead wood and setting up a makeshift clothes rack next to the fire before Athos can shame him further.

The others cluster together while he works but don’t offer to help. When the structure is finished the three of them form a semi-circle around d’Artagnan and wait.

“You have to put the clothes on the rack,” Aramis says helpfully.

And since there’s nothing else for it, d’Artagnan starts to strip. He takes off his waistcoat and shirt first, laying out the items to dry as he goes. The rack is in the wrong place, he realises, and he’ll likely reek of smoke tomorrow, but there’s no way he’s going to re-do it now. He struggles to balance while he drags off his water-logged britches.

“They’re going to be all night drying,” Porthos observes. “Chilly night to sleep naked.”

All eyes are on him now, interested, no more looking off nobly into the distance. It makes d’Artagnan blush. He’s down to his smalls when he looks imploringly from Porthos to Athos, “These too?”

“Are they wet?” Aramis says, “Because if they’re wet then you’re going to need to dry them. And in order to dry them it seems to me that you’re going to have to take them off.” He’s smirking, the bastard.

Porthos’s mask of sincerity breaks too, and Athos’s last, the corner of his mouth turning up and his eyes crinkling. “You arseholes!” d’Artagnan tries to be angry but his heart is too light, newly free from guilt. His lips betray him, answering their smiles.

“We’re waiting,” Athos says, and there’s still an intensity in the way he’s watching, behind the smirk.

D’Artagnan recognises it as another dare and takes off the underwear, because it’s either that or back down. Aramis takes it from him and lays it out on the branches to dry. D’Artagnan is acutely aware of their observation but refuses to be cowed into shame, or cover himself with his hands like he wants to. He stands up straight, the way they are taught to in roll call, and meets their eyes in defiance.

“He’s standing to attention,” Aramis muses, resting a hand on Athos’s shoulder. His eyes wander in shameless speculation over every part of d’Artagnan, heating his blood.

“All of him,” Porthos agrees, making it worse.

Athos says nothing at all, only watches as d’Artagnan’s cock rises to full hardness between them.

Porthos unexpectedly slings an arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders, making him jump.

“Come,” Athos says, holding out his hand, a true smile warming all of his face, “If you want to. These two ‘arseholes’ can make it up to you by keeping you warm tonight.”

D’Artagnan allows himself to be led to their bed rolls, all piled together beneath a sweet chestnut tree by Aramis, and down to the floor, where Athos manoeuvres them so that he himself sits propped against the trunk and d’Artagnan sits between his legs. He holds d’Artagnan close with both arms wrapped around him, keeping the chill evening air from his shoulders. The heat of him against d’Artagnan’s damp back feels almost like skin on skin.

Aramis sits by Athos’s side and leans against them. He trails his fingertips thoughtfully across d’Artagnan’s belly, making d’Artagnan gasp and his skin twitch.

“Warm feet.” Porthos says, apropos of nothing, taking d’Artagnan’s foot into his lap. “Best way to stay warm.” D’Artagnan’s heel rests on Porthos’s meaty thigh and his bare calf on Porthos’s stockinged one, where his boot has been removed. It’s almost unbearably intimate. Porthos shushes him, working his thumbs over d’Artagnan’s sole until it stops jolting in ticklish spasms and d’Artagnan learns to relax into it. 

Aramis dips a finger into d’Artagnan’s navel, then shifts to draw his trail down across d’Artagnan’s thighs instead. He makes little circles and whorls as if writing, making the skin pebble into gooseflesh.

Porthos takes hold of his other foot too, caressing both feet both at once, and d’Artagnan groans, his cock taking a renewed interest.

“I beg to differ, _mon ami_ ,” Aramis says, tugging gently at d’Artagnan’s nether hair while skilfully avoiding his actual cock. “There are better ways to keep warm.”

“Better ways of keeping warm?” Athos says, his beard rough against d’Artagnan’s ear. “Whatever could they be?”

“Better even than warm feet?” Porthos rumbles, turning d’Artagnan’s leg by the ankle so that his tender inner-thigh is exposed to Aramis’s ministrations. 

“Oh, it’s not something to be shared between brothers in arms,” Aramis says, settling his palm against d’Artagnan’s trembling thigh like a brand, fingers soothing and kneading. “I speak of an intimacy our young friend would only choose to find with a lady.”

“Or alone,” Porthos adds. He manoeuvres so that d’Artagnan’s feet are perilously close to his own crotch and massages d’Artagnan’s lower legs, working his way upwards. “In the privacy of his bed, with only his sword hand for company.” His fingers meet Aramis’s and they intertwine briefly before going their separate ways.

“Unless this is a dream,” Athos says, nuzzling d’Artagnan’s neck and making him shudder.

“It’s true,” Aramis says, finally taking hold of d’Artagnan’s cock and wrapping his long fingers around it. “A man might find _le petit mort_ at his brothers’ hands in a dream, and yet live to fight another day.”

“Oh _please_ ,” d’Artagnan begs, not sure what he’s asking for really, since Aramis is already stroking him expertly and flooding his body with pleasure.

“I have dreams like that,” Porthos says, “Or at least I think they’re dreams,” and d’Artagnan can feel Porthos, hard and hot through his breeches, pressed against d’Artagnan’s foot.

Athos turns his face into d’Artagnan’s hair and breathes him in. “Are we alive and dreaming,” he murmurs, “Or just dead and remembering?”

“What say you d’Artagnan?” Aramis’s strokes are perfect, infuriating, unhurried. “Does this feel like Heaven?”

“ _Uhhhhhh_ ,” d’Artagnan moans. He tries to rock his hips and push himself into Aramis’s touch, but there’s little scope for movement with the way he’s being held. 

Athos puts his lips against d’Artagnan’s temple and keeps them pressed there, in a kiss without end. D’Artagnan tries to shift his body, wanting reassurance of Athos’s arousal where it presses against his back. 

“I think he’s trying to say ‘almost’,” Porthos decides, taking up d’Artagnan’s foot again and smoothing a thumb along the toe pads. The added pleasure is too much. “Almost heaven.” 

“Almost Heaven,” Aramis ponders, watching as d’Artagnan reaches the brink of his endurance. Aramis’s expression is heavy with mirrored arousal but there’s a kindness there too. “I can live with that.”

Athos hums, long and low in sympathy as d’Artagnan comes apart. He holds him close, riding it out alongside him as his body spasms in all-consuming bliss, which _is_ Heaven. It seems to go on for a long time before Aramis will let him rest.

A handkerchief lands on d’Artagnan’s belly, either Porthos’s or Aramis’s: he’s too stunned to pay attention to which. When the fog of delirium clears, Athos has released his arms so that he can mop himself up.

Athos turns d’Artagnan so that they’re lying face to face or, more accurately, d’Artagnan’s face to Athos’s chest, and Aramis settles himself beside them, stretching out before curling in.

“It’s hard to shake those kinds of dreams once they start,” Porthos says, going to his pack to fetch a cloak, which he lays over d’Artagnan’s naked form.

Aramis gestures impatiently for him to hurry up. “It’s harder to dream when you’re not even lying down,” he complains, pulling Porthos down half on top of him.

Porthos snorts. “Give me a chance,” he says, reaching between them to unlace Aramis’s breeches.


End file.
